


Eres

by laratoncita



Category: On My Block (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Smut, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2020-07-09 17:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19891606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: Figures that Oscar’s busy the one day you get off work early this week.(Requests crossposted from tumblr.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> um this is entirely smut so. read at your own risk? ([requests go here!](https://spookysruca.tumblr.com/ask))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 183\. “By the time I get home you better be completely nude”

Figures that Oscar’s busy the one day you get off work early this week—you’re used to getting home and finding something cooked for you already. You once joked about him wanting to be a house-husband, got deliciously punished, and haven’t had the chance to test it out again. Maybe you were hoping for something like that today, but walking into the house and finding it too quiet doesn’t give you much hope.

Lucky for you he _did_ leave some sliced fruit ready. Maybe Oscar’s not a house-husband, but he _does_ take care of the people he loves, and you’re one of them. Doesn’t matter how girls flock to Santos parties or eye him up; that’s _your_ man.

The thought makes you wonder if he needs a reminder, though. Maybe something to let him know what he’s missing, out doing who-knows-what while you’re at home, thinking of him. You strip out of your clothes as soon as you get to the bathroom, lather up and make yourself fresh as can be. You don’t break out the lingerie often—the two of you don’t have much patience for it, really, falling into bed whenever you get the chance instead of meticulous date nights that cost too much for either of you.

That doesn’t mean you haven’t made some good investments. Lacy, sheer underthings that usually end up at the bottom of your drawers on accident, worn when it’s laundry day and then accidentally surprising Oscar when he gets his hands on you later. He likes to say fancy shit is a waste of time, that he’d rather have you naked and waiting for him. You like the ritual of getting ready, though. Rubbing cocoa butter into your skin, touching up your hair. You like this bodysuit best, black and high-cut with scalloped detail. You bite your lip, thinking of what he’s going to do to you when he gets home, before remembering that you’ve got to _get_ him home first.

When you moved in you brought a little mobile mirror. It’s a _you_ thing, considering the men in this house prefer their standard cholo gear, but today it’ll be serving Oscar well, too. You take longer than you’d like to get the mirror right where you want it, but finally you get yourself perched at the edge of the bed. You let your legs fall open, admiring the view yourself before picking up your phone and snapping a few pictures. You tilt your head, lean forward and then back, pout and smile.

You like the one where you’re actually smiling best, leaning on one hand real casual, like it’s just a regular selfie and not one where you can see right through the sheer black material of your outfit. You let the picture speak for itself, sending it with no caption, and it doesn’t take longer than a few minutes for Oscar to respond.

_Where’d you get that?_

Of course he’s asking questions. You ignore it, send back, _I was thinking of you._

_Yeah? About what?_

You bite your lip again. Type, _Had an easy day today, thought I could take care of you for once_. You follow up with, _But you’re not home :(_

_Soon_ , he sends back. You grin a little. Rearrange yourself and let your legs fall open, tug down one strap of your outfit so that the fabric falls away from your skin. You splay your fingers against your inner thigh with one hand and snap the picture with the other, send the photo with no caption again.

The response is immediate. _By the time I get home you better be completely nude._

You grin. Heat pools, low in your belly, and you respond, _We’ll see_ , before draping yourself across the bed to wait for him. There’s no way you’re taking this off when you know the outfit’s driving him crazy already.

Soon enough—though not as soon as you’d like—you hear Oscar arrive, calling your name. You sit up, taking a second to glance at yourself in the mirror to make sure you look at least semi-put together. Yeah, Oscar’s about to make a complete mess out of you, but you want him to know that you look _good_.

From the look on his face when he walks in the room, though, it’s clear he already knows that. His eyes rove up your body, greedy, and you’re hyperaware of the way his eyes linger on your legs, your chest, before they settle on your face. He grins a little, licks his lower lip.

“What I tell you, nena?” he says, and comes close, already unbuttoning his flannel. You grin up at him.

“D’you like the pictures?” you ask, and when he cups your face in his hand you lean into it.

“Yeah,” he says, watching you, “you like _taking_ them?”

“Yeah.”

He grins. His eyes look so dark. “You wanna give me a show?”

“What, taking this off me’s too much work?”

He leans in close. “’S not the kind of show I was thinking,” he says against your ear.

That’s a new one. Oscar in front of you, _not_ touching, watching you get ready for him. You’re getting wet already, can feel your face go hot with the thought of him seeing all of you at once and not doing anything about it. You swallow.

“You gonna tell me what to do?” you ask, watching his eyebrows quirk up in surprise.

“You gonna listen?” he says, and moves his hand from your face to your chest, rubs your nipple through the sheer fabric. You inhale deeply. “No me diste caso.”

“Ain’t it more fun this way?” you ask him.

“It will be,” he says, and takes his hand off you. Shrugs out of his button up, unbuckles his pants. You watch the movements hungrily, but he doesn’t take them off. Says, “C’mere, mamita,” and you scramble up.

Sometimes you’re good at listening.

It’s a little weird, you’ll admit, to be on your knees and not going straight for his belt. Oscar’s leaning up against the headboard, pants undone but still on, tank top stretching across his chest. Just looking at him is making you hot. You rub your hands up your thighs, less because it’s sexy and more because you’re not sure what to do with your hands, but he follows the movement anyway. He can’t seem to keep his eyes off you, and you almost wish you could say the same about his hands.

Not that you don’t think you’ll have fun this way, too.

“You haven’t done this for nobody before?” he says, and looks up at you again.

“No.”

“Good,” Oscar says. “Touch yourself.”

You bring a hand up, palm dragging against your sternum to your collarbone. Your other hand moves opposite, down your belly to your thighs, legs spread the slightest bit to better give your man a show. The anticipation is killing you. “Like this?”

“Pull the straps down.”

“Oscar,” you say, but do it anyway. Roll a nipple between your thumb and forefinger and sigh. You start to rub yourself over the lingerie.

“Hey,” Oscar says. His voice is low. You love how he’s looking at you. Like there’s nothing else on his mind. “I say you could do that?”

You bite your lip. He grins, finally.

“Keep going,” he tells you. Squeezes himself, just a little. “How you like that?”

“I know what I like,” you tell him, and grin a little when he doesn’t look impressed. You squeeze your tits, caressing your skin and sighing into it. It feels good, him watching you like this, toes curling in anticipation.

Oscar’s not very patient though.

“C’mere,” he says, still touching himself while watching you do the same.

“Why?” you ask. You keep rubbing at your clit, and he rolls his eyes, even if it’s clear he’s enjoying it. You want more already.

He doesn’t bother answering you, reaching out for you instead. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t meet him halfway, clambering into his lap. His hands settle at your hips. He says, “You having fun?”

“Clearly,” you say, rolling your hips against his. He exhales, sharp, and slips two fingers under the bodysuit when you try it again. You don’t quite whimper, but it’s close. He rubs at your entrance, just a little, and even just _that_ feels good. “You’re so wet for me, baby.”

“You gonna take care of me?”

“I thought it was the other way around,” he says. He doesn’t look put-off, though.

“I gave you a show already, didn’t I,” you say, and then he presses those two fingers inside you and you moan.

“Good?”

“Always,” you say, and grind down on his fingers. Your hand closes around his dick, still in his boxer-briefs but hard in your grip. “Take these off.”

“In a minute,” he says, thrusting up a little bit, and curls his fingers, a _come hither_ motion that has you seeing stars.

“Oscar,” you say, and he mouths at your tits, tongue warm against your skin, his teeth a welcome distraction when he bites down and thrusts his fingers at the same time. Your hips won’t stop moving. “Oh, God.”

“Más?”

“Yeah,” you say, your voice veering upwards like it always does. A little desperate. A little hoarse. “Please.”

You’re practically fucking yourself on his fingers. He says, “Hold on, baby,” and has you climb off him. Strips out of the rest of his clothes and barely lets you enjoy the view before getting you under him, the crinkle of the condom wrapper lost to the sounds of your breathing.

He pushes inside of you in one smooth movement, doesn’t bother getting you naked. You can’t keep yourself from moaning, even with his mouth on yours.

“Yeah?”

You feel so full. Say, with feeling, “ _Fuck_.”

“You like that?” he says on a thrust, and you can barely answer him. Just push your hips up best as you can to meet his, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He bites a bruise against your collarbone, fucking you with a steady rhythm that has the headboard banging. You push your hips up best as you can, hips grinding upwards furiously for the little bit of friction that’ll get you over the edge. He says, “ _Baby_ ,” and kisses you, tongue against your lower lip while he finally, _finally_ touches your clit.

“Please,” you manage, and tighten your thighs against his hips, “like that, please—”

Everything about him feels good. His hands on you, his mouth, the hot length of him inside you. You’re calling out his name and begging, his hips moving faster against yours, and when he bites your lip you short circuit. Head tossed back, back arching. A nonsensical litany of _yes, like that, yes_ until you finally pass the peak, Oscar still inside of you, his teeth against your neck.

He always feels good. He bites you again, when he comes, and when he rolls off you to throw the condom out you take a deep breath like everything makes sense again.

“You good?” he says, amused. You haven’t moved yet.

“Great,” you say. You hope you didn’t fuck up the bodysuit, but even if you did, well. You have other underappreciated lacy things. “So. You mad I wasn’t naked when you got home?”

“Nope,” he says, and crawls back into bed to kiss you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 117\. “Be my fake boyfriend/girlfriend/partner!”  
> 210\. “Was I too rough?”

“I need you to be my fake boyfriend,” you say, and Oscar gives you a look that maybe gets you a little hot.

“Fake boyfriend, eh?” he says, “What happened to me being some desgraciado you don’t wanna see no more?”

“Maybe you were right about Ricky having the hots for me,” you say, gritting your teeth and slouching closer to him. Ricky’s a few aisles away, and the last thing you wanted today was to run into either him or your ex, let alone both at the same time. You hate living in a food desert. Who goes grocery shopping at eight on a Tuesday, anyway?

You haven’t seen Oscar since you broke up a few weeks ago. You did most of the breaking up, him saying that if you were going to be acting this way he didn’t want to see you, either, and then you had angry breakup sex and went on your way. You’re a little hurt he seems fine.

Then he says, “I’m always right,” and you remember why you broke up in the first place.

“Hijo de tu—” you take a deep breath. Say, “He’s asked me out three times since…in the last month.”

“Since you been single,” Oscar says, flat, and there’s a spark of something familiar in his eye. Something possessive. You kind of like the look on him, all those Chicana Feminist Theory courses be damned.

“Maybe,” you say, and square your shoulders. If he doesn’t want to help you out with this creep, fine. It’s not his job to worry about you anymore. You have to admit, you being Spooky’s girl used to keep most dudes from being nasty to your face. It _kills_ you to know that Oscar was right about Ricky, but if you have to deal with it alone then you’ll deal.

Oscar leans back. Looks you up again, mouth pursed like he’s holding back a smirk. “What do I get out of it?”

“If I let you kick his ass will we be even?”

He laughs. “Nena, I could kick his ass _without_ your permission.”

_But it would actually cheer me up this time_ , you want to tell him, but it’s not his job to make you happy anymore, either. You shrug. Say, “Do me a favor, then, Oscar. One last time.”

He raises an eyebrow. “One last time? Sounds familiar.”

Your face goes hot. You said that a few weeks ago, too.

“Alright,” he says, grinning now, “one last time, like you said. What am I supposed to do for you, eh? Go scare him?”

You stick your hand out. He looks at it for a second, then laughs a little. Your palms still fit together just right, though, and he laces your fingers—overkill, frankly, but maybe you feel butterflies anyway.

“Good?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

You can’t say when Ricky catches sight of you, but at some point while arguing with Oscar about vanilla extract—not the first time, hopefully the last—you notice him watching you a little too closely for comfort. It must show on your face, because Oscar drops the argument for once and tugs you closer, letting go of your hand to rest a hand on your lower back, warm through your t-shirt.

“Still good?” he says, voice low, and you nod.

“Yeah,” you say, and steal the basket from him while he’s distracted. “Just get the knock-off shit, Oscar, it’s not that serious.”

Of course, Ricky’s standing a little bit too close in line for you to pay for your own shit. Not that Oscar would let you otherwise.

“Just ring it up first,” you mutter, “tengo cash, I’ll pay you back.”

“It’s cool,” he says, completely ignoring you and ringing everything up together. You stare at him. “Keep making that face, nena.”

“You’re annoying,” you say.

“Still your man, though, right?” he asks, a little bit louder than he needs to be.

Asshole. “Yeah,” you say, knowing that when he looks behind you it’s because he’s trying to make eye contact with Ricky. Quieter, you say, “Did I say to start a fight?”

“You said I could kick his ass.”

“Whatchu gonna do if they ban you from here? It’s the nearest frutería, güey.”

“Watch your mouth,” he says, and wags his finger at you like a tía. You laugh despite yourself, not even having to think about it when you reach for his hand.

You walk him to his car, where you proceed to argue about how you’re getting home.

“How you gonna bus with groceries?” he says, “Just let me drop you off.”

“You already did me a favor,” you tell him, “it ain’t that much stuff.”

“And if your new man Ricky sees?”

“He’s not my man, ew.”

“Pues,” Oscar says, nodding behind you. You almost turn to look. “He looks a little bit like he thinks he is.”

“Fuck,” you mutter, “is he coming this way?”

“Can’t tell.”

“Ugh,” you twist a little closer to Oscar, nearly tucked under his arm as he finishes putting the groceries in his trunk. Maybe you didn’t put up as much a fight as you should have. “I’m pretty sure the only other car over here belongs to Mr. Rivera.”

“Yup,” Oscar says, and shuts the trunk. “Whatchu want me to do?”

You bite your lip. You’re standing too close to him, honestly. Can feel his body heat against your side. “Kiss me?”

He blinks at you. Says, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, and meet him halfway, almost, up on your toes like always.

It kills you to admit that you _do_ miss Oscar. He kisses like he means it every time, stupid goatee scraping your chin. Mouth soft, tongue against yours. You sigh into it, forget why you were kissing in the first place. He runs his fingers through your hair with one hand, the other clutching at your hip, and you wonder whether this is really such a bad idea. When he pulls away you’re disappointed.

“He’s still there.”

“Um,” you say. “Is he just. Is he just watching?”

Oscar kisses you again, teeth against your lower lip. Your knees nearly give out. “Wanna see how long it’ll take him to leave?”

“Hm,” you say, Oscar pulling you flush against him. “Oscar…”

“Yes or no?”

Fuck it. “Yes,” you say, and kiss him again, moaning when he grabs your ass. You pause long enough to get in the backseat, and maybe glance out the window to see if Ricky is still lingering in the lot. He is. You’re not sure how you feel about it, but you _know_ you like how Oscar’s biting at your collarbone, even if he’s stretching out the neck of your shirt.

“Lemme take this off.”

“We’re in public!”

“It’s almost nine,” he says, and you lift your arms for him so he can tug your shirt off, “no one’s here but us.”

“And Ricky.”

He bares his teeth. “I can go kick his ass real quick.”

You don’t want him to leave—tug him back down instead, get _his_ shirt off, too, so you can feel him up while he kisses down your chest.

“Nena,” he say against your sternum, “what we doing?”

“No tienes condón?” you ask, and moan again when he bites.

“I like how you think,” he says, like he wasn’t saying the opposite not too long ago, and then the two you get your shorts and underwear off. You really hope Ricky left already. Oscar presses his thumb to your clit, rubs just a little. He’s holding himself above you, a little bit, and you move up to your elbows to kiss him, pinching at your nipples with one hand while guiding his lower with the other.

“Inside me,” you mumble against his mouth, inhaling sharply when he listens. You move to unzip his shorts and he pushes your hand away, gentle but insistent. “What,” you say, barely a breath, but he kisses you again and you get distracted.

He does the same shit when you try to reach down and touch yourself, and you pull back with a huff.

“ _What_?”

He laughs a little. Says, “Let me,” and strokes himself, once, twice, before putting on the condom and pressing up against you. Not _into_ , just—there. Rubbing. Teasing.

“Oscar,” you say. A warning that doesn’t mean much, with how breathless you are.

“Yeah, babe?”

“You’re annoying,” you say, flat, and this time, when you try to touch yourself, he takes both wrists in one hand and pins them against the door. You feel your breath catch, your thighs clench. When he grins it’s the slightest bit predatory, and you are way, _way_ too into it.

“You like that?”

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” you snap, and that possessive glint comes back.

“Trust me, nena,” he says, still stupidly put-together, even as he pushes into you in one smooth thrust that has you crying out, “I always do.”

Oscar’s no slouch. But this? This has to be him proving something to you. Maybe payback for breaking up in the first place. All you know is that the pace is _incredible_ , the snap of his hips matching your moans. You’re so wet you can hear it, Oscar’s half-mumbled _fuck_ , and _yeah_ , and _you like that?_ just another part of him you missed. This is a good reminder though—how good he feels inside you, or all around you, still rubbing at your clit while you squirm.

You keep inching up the seat, just a little. You say, “Oscar,” and he slows down.

“You good?”

“Mhm,” you say, pushing yourself closer to him, trying to keep your head from hitting the door, “keep going.”

He grins. Dimple showing. It’s almost endearing, but then he starts fucking you earnestly again, and you’re back to being too loud in too public of a place. You feel so out of it, so caught off guard—whether from having him again for the first time in weeks or for jumping into the back seat with him so quickly. Feels like the whole car’s rocking. You love it.

“Baby,” you moan, close to the edge, Oscar still pumping into you like he’s got a prize to win, “please, I—you’re so—fuck, you feel good, please—”

“You like that?” he says again, hits that spot inside that has your toes curling, hits it on the second, third, fourth thrust and your eyes screw shut on instinct. You can only feel blinding pleasure for a long moment, fingers clenched around nothing. Oscar says, “ _Fuck_ ,” and when you open your eyes again he goes still over you, bites his lip as he comes, grinding his hips against yours, so oversensitive it almost feels good.

For a long moment you just breathe together, and then he pulls out. You feel empty. You look at your wrists—don’t see bruises, nothing, not that the lighting’s too good. A little sore, maybe.

Oscar catches you. Says, almost worried-sounding, “Was I too rough?”

“Nah,” you say, because he wasn’t. You ache in a good way, like you do after a workout, voice hoarse to match, “He didn’t watch, did he?”

Oscar blinks. Looks out the window. He says, “Ain’t nobody out there.”

“Oh, good,” you say, and let your head hit the seat again. You try to summon shame; fucking your ex in his car at the grocery store is not your best moment. Say, trying to front, “You really got me fucking in a parking lot again, huh.”

“You telling me you didn’t have a good time?” he asks.

“Shut up and drive me home,” you say, not making a move to put your clothes back on, “my groceries are still in the trunk.”

If anyone asks, you do _not_ yell when Oscar drops your underwear on your face.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 165\. “Do you think they heard us?”

At the end of the day, this was probably your fault.

In your defense, having Oscar around day in and day out is _frustrating_. Looking that good shouldn’t be allowed. And honestly, you tend to forget about everyone else when you’ve got his undivided attention. You have no one to blame but yourself, really, when you find yourself under him like you usually do. You’re not even mad about it, really.

“Oscar, please,” you say, probably the fifth time already, waiting for him to stop teasing you with kisses against the insides of your thighs. He has a firm grip on you already, and it’s hotter than you’ll ever admit. You’re soaked already, just from his kisses and the gentle way he rubbed you over your underwear before throwing them somewhere over his shoulder.

“Relax, nena,” he says, his breath over you making your back arch in anticipation, “what’s the rush?”

“I swear to God,” you say, fingers curled over his shoulders, “if you don’t—”

He takes that moment to lick at the warm, wet heat of you, and your threat warps into a moan. You need it so bad. Oscar, too, from the way he tightens his fingers on your hips, his mouth and tongue moving against you like sweet torture. He takes his time, like he did earlier, teases you how he likes best, slipping a finger inside of you while he bites a kiss against your thigh again.

“Fuck,” you say, trying to grind against him but not sure which way to push your hips towards. He’s too good at this. You can’t even hold it against him.

“Yeah?” he says, before ducking down to mouth at your clit, and you whimper, one hand coming up to cover your mouth. He grabs at it, laces your fingers together. “Lemme hear you, baby.”

“Oscar,” you sigh, moaning when he curls his finger up, just a little, tongue on a lazy upward stroke like the two of you have got all day. He likes to act like he always does, takes his time taking you apart and leaving you a bigger mess than you thought possible.

“You like that, nena?”

“ _Yes_ ,” you whimper as he slips another finger in, slick inside you without any need for lube, “just like that, baby.”

“You take it so good,” he says, rubbing inside you sweetly, almost enough but not quite. Like he just wants to see you squirm a little more than you already are, naked and sprawled out, noisy for once because it’s just the two of you. He’s grinning, a little, dimples showing. You’ve never wanted anyone as badly as Oscar, and he always delivers.

He alternates like that for a while, mouth sucking a kiss on your clit, thumb rubbing gently when he gets distracted by your thighs. He keeps nipping there, your skin tender and aching sweetly when he bites. You haven’t stopped moaning since he told you to. All of it too good, too much and not enough—you want more, always want more, even if this is a favorite pastime for the both of you.

“Oscar,” you say again. You like saying his name. It’s a reminder, or a demand, or just a sigh because nothing else can be said anymore. In this moment it’s just the two of you, Oscar making you feel good and frustrating you all at once. It’s pretty standard for him, really; you can’t lie and say you aren’t having a good time, though. You grind down on his fingers best as you can, still on your back, his hands still holding your legs open. “ _Please_.”

“You want more?”

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to whine. It quickly turns into a moan, though, high and needy. “Oh, fuck,” you manage, Oscar pumping his fingers out of you with a sudden vigor that catches you off guard. It’s exactly what you’ve been craving, though, and you can’t keep yourself from begging for more. Praising him, practically, breathy _yeses_ and _like that_ and _gimme more, baby_ , slipping from your mouth, loud when he hits all the right spots in you, when he scrapes your teeth against your skin.

Oscar ducks his head again, lips around your clit, and _sucks_. You’re so close you’re ready to shout.

“Fuck,” you gasp, squirming upwards, desperate for more friction even as he crooks his fingers again and picks up the pace, your breathing heavy and his still fanning over your overheated skin. “Yeah, baby, like that, please.”

“You like this, huh?” he says, rubs his thumb against your clit while his fingers stay thrusting, “You take it so nice, nena, you ready for more? You gonna sound like this on my dick, baby, or are you gonna need—”

The thought of you finally getting screwed is what does it. You clench tight around his fingers, head tossed back, Oscar still saying nasty shit to you. You moan, beg, say _yes_ and _more_ and _fuck me, please_ , and when you come back to yourself you're panting, Oscar too smug by half.

And then there’s the sound of something crashing immediately outside the door, and both you and Oscar freeze. No one should be home yet, but then again, with how long you two have been going at it—

“Son of a—sorry! Sorry! We’re leaving now!” comes Cesar’s voice and the sound of feet scurrying on carpet. Your hands come up to cover your mouth, eyes no doubt comically huge.

“Oh my God,” you say, and Oscar, still between your legs, just looks at you with something like curiosity on his face.

He raises an eyebrow. “You think they heard us?” he asks, and laughs when you groan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon said: Hey saw your requests are open, yay! Your writing is just soo good. So if possible could you do an imagine with the prompt number 20.we take care of each other, right? I mean however you wanna write it but if possible, could you do angst and then a fluff ending...I just love happy endings- sucker for them. But no pressure what ever you write I know will be amazing! Thanks heaps 💗

Oscar says, “Go home,” and won’t move to let you in the house. It’s early morning but it’s hot already, California sun relentless on the back of your neck. Your hair’s pulled up, a classic bun, and the black dress you’re in doesn’t help at all. It’s not like Oscar has much money for a funeral, but the church service for his mom is today.

The news shouldn’t have been a surprise but you remember finding Oscar, numb, after the ambulance had pulled away from the curb. It was a long time coming—a lot of people said that, whispering behind their hands when they saw Oscar, still a teenager, trying to make this new reality make sense.

You were there for them, too, but this wasn’t something you could fix all by yourself. You showed up hoping to comfort them, those first few days after—bringing over Oscar’s favorite food, a gift for Cesar—but it didn’t change the fact that their mother was finally gone.

You were half-expecting this, Oscar with his tie done, a little crooked like he hadn’t bothered looking in the mirror. You tell him, “No,” and he raises an eyebrow. You’re not backing down, though. Say, "We take care of each other, right?”

He's said it to you before, when you’ve gotten into fights with your mom and thrown out for the night. Or when you got fired from your job and had to decide between rent and groceries. Any moment where you weren’t feeling 100%, he was there. You’ve done the exact same.

This life is a hard one but you think he makes it worth it. The early mornings together make the rest fade away, laughing over a dumb he told you or kissing him on nights where the two of you just cruise together. You want the two of you to always take care of each other.

“You can’t throw that in my face,” he says, but some of the fight starts to fade from his posture.

“Yeah, I can,” you tell him, and when you reach out to cup his face, fix his tie, he lets you.

His voice is quiet. “I don’t wanna do this.” This like bury her, maybe. Or raise Cesar all alone. Or have to keep living this life.

You say, “That’s why I’m here,” and think he might just believe you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 8\. You’re mine. / I’m yours.
> 
> 30\. Why’re you looking at me like that? / ‘Cause I love you.

Oscar’s just pushed inside of you when he asks, “Who you belong to?”

“Fuck,” you say in response, fingernails digging into his back while he circles his hips against yours, a slow grind that has a second orgasm building steadily already. He spent an indeterminable amount of time between your thighs earlier, and you’ve spent the last several minutes kissing the taste of yourself off his mouth while he fingered you. You want him so bad you think you might lose it.

He tilts his head a little, kisses your jaw, the corner of your mouth, your nose. Always romantic, even when he’s got you right where he wants you. When he snaps his hips you cry out, scrabble at him; like you can’t get him close enough. You always want more. He ducks his head lower, takes your nipple into his mouth. You can’t stop yourself from nearly shouting when he sucks, back arching, whole body going hot from his touch.

You kiss him and it’s sloppy, and afterwards he asks again, “Who you belong to?”

You can only manage his name—can feel him deep inside you, a steady rhythm while his hips move against yours, and you grind upwards, just a little, the friction almost good enough to get you off again. “Please.”

“Please what?”

“More,” you manage, and mewl when he listens, the headboard hitting the wall steadily, now, your ankles locking over his lower back while he pushes into you over and over, hard and deep and fast like you both love it. “Baby—“

“Dime,” he says, kissing you once, twice, a third time. He hitches your hips higher and you finally shout, the angle absolute perfection, and within a few thrusts you’re coming again, something more full-body about this one than the first.

You repeat his name and it makes him grin, dimple and all, before kissing you again, mumbling, “You’re mine,” while he picks the pace up again, clearly close to finishing.

“I’m yours,” you agree, frantic while you kiss him. He fills you up so good, always makes you feel like you’re the center of this universe and the next. He says your name and you put your mouth to his again, bite down over his tattoo as he groans through his own orgasm.

Afterwards, after you’ve both cleaned yourselves back up and are shoulder to shoulder in bed again, you can feel him watching you. You turn your head, catch his eye. Something tender there, his expression gentle.

You say, voice hushed, “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

You’re only a little breathless when he reaches out, tucking a stray hair behind your ear before cupping your face, and says, “‘Cause I love you.“


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anon said: "Prompt 25 ! Please I was thinking dad!oscar with reader maybe in the two year later thing, cause I imagine him with a little girl of 1 yrs old and her just stirring next to him wearing a crown and two two and fairy wings and Oscar to. Tea party 🎊☕️"
> 
> 25\. I know you’re tryna get me to play house with you.

You find Oscar and the baby out back when you get home. Cesar’s inside, working on homework for one of his classes, and he waves you towards the backdoor when you ask where Oscar is.

The sight that you find warms your heart, your daughter—barely walking, now, but doing her best—babbling in a mixture of baby-talk and Spanglish across from Oscar. They’ve both got feather boas on—the former in purple, the latter in pink. Crowns almost matching, if only because Oscar’s is made out of construction paper. It doesn’t seem like the baby was able to convince him to rock a matching tutu, but she seems just as content to wiggle while Oscar pours her some imaginary tea.

Her face lights up when she sees you, and she shouts, bright and clear, “Mami!” before taking a few wobbly steps towards you.

You swoop in before she can get too far despite yourself, just wanting to take her in your arms as fast as possible. You coo, “Hi baby,” before peppering her face with kissing, and she giggles as she pats at your jaw. “You having fun with Daddy?”

“Lots,” Oscar says, a little dry, and you make a face at him while you press your cheek to the top of the baby’s head. She’s Oscar’s mini-me, down to her mad face.

“I’m sure,” you tell him, and then, trying hard not to use your baby voice with your barely toddler-age child, “Qué hacían?”

“Tea!” She pats your arms, clearly wanting to get down, and you watch, smiling, as she toddles back to Oscar. She offers him more imaginary tea, and you do your best to hide your laughter when he graciously takes it, especially when he turns to you with his eyebrows raised.

“You ain’t gonna have some?“

“I think I’m good.”

“How come?” he asks, and you give in and lean down to kiss him hello.

"I know you’re tryna get me to play house with you,” you say, half-scolding, and gingerly take a seat in one of the mini-chairs that your mom gave you as a gift for the baby’s first birthday. They’re old school, the kind that all the viejas in Mexico have in their foyers, and neither you or Oscar can really fit in them all that comfortably, not that it’s stopping you today.

“You already do that,” he says, nodding at your left hand, white sapphire ring because you don’t like diamonds, and you roll your eyes half-heartedly.

“Debes ser agradecido,” you say, but you’re grinning anyway, content to have your little family all around you, even when it means drinking pretend tea half-past four.


End file.
